


Recursion

by quantumducky



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Not A Fix-It, Time Travel, because otherwise the pov changes would be incomprehensible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumducky/pseuds/quantumducky
Summary: The Distortion that calls itself Michael should be destroyed. Unmade. Instead, it finds itself back in a time before it existed, faced with a chance to alter its own fate.
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion & Michael Shelley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Recursion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graveExcitement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveExcitement/gifts).



At first, it was just a flicker in the mirror. Barely enough to startle Michael Shelley into looking up from the automatic motion of rinsing his hands in the washroom, and when he checked over his shoulder, nothing was there- but right as he decided it must have been a trick of the light, it happened again. Now that he was looking directly at it, there was no denying something was there. And it wasn’t just a flicker, this time, it was a- a gash in reality, that was what it looked like, a wound bleeding static and colours that don’t exist. It grew larger, more chaotic, and kept growing until all at once… It was hard to say what happened, exactly. Whether it coalesced into something that could be seen and understood, or he simply found the right way to look at it, like a magic eye picture. Either way, where there had been an incomprehensible and terrifying blur, he now saw a man, or… something that resembled one. He thought distantly that he should have been screaming or running out of the room or  _ something, _ but he was too frozen in shock. He could only stand there and stare at the  _ thing _ behind him in the mirror.

It looked  _ like _ a man, but that wasn’t to say anyone would have actually mistaken it for one. It was all the wrong shapes, which just happened to put themselves together in a manner close enough to human that it was possible to see the resemblance, as long as you didn’t look closely. It was a suggestion of itself, an implication, subliminal and difficult to make sense of head-on. For the first few seconds, he would have sworn it looked nearly as confused as he was himself. Its face was hard to make out, but he thought he saw it take a long look around the room before stopping and turning its attention to him. Their eyes met in the reflection, and then it started laughing. There was something about the sound of it- but Michael didn’t have time to think about that, because then it was right behind him, reaching over his shoulder to shut off the tap, and he flinched back and finally turned to face it, eyes wide and breathing quickened. His arm tingled where its hand had bumped into him.

“W- what- what are you?” he finally asked, when it became clear the thing wasn’t going to do anything other than stare at him, head tilted a little too far to the side in contemplation. “What do you want?”

“Michael,” it said- possibly more to itself than him- which left him with no fewer questions and considerably more concerns. He wasn’t brave enough to ask how it knew his name. He stood very still while it stepped up to stand directly in front of him, examining his face. For his part, he did all he could to avoid returning the scrutiny; even if it wouldn’t take offense, looking too hard at it made him feel dizzy. It smiled too wide and said, “Oh, this is  _ very _ interesting,” and then… it left. Out the door and gone without another word.

He couldn’t bring himself to move until, eventually, someone else walked in and looked at him strangely, and he pretended he’d only been lost in thought and hurried out. The… thing, whatever it had been… was long gone. He shook his head and laughed nervously, mumbling something to himself about too much stress and not enough sleep. He didn’t believe it, but what could he do? Tell someone? No one would believe him. They’d call it a hallucination- for all he knew, maybe it  _ was. _ And if he was hallucinating monsters now, he definitely didn’t want to make it public knowledge. Better to keep quiet. Maybe, if he tried hard enough not to think about it, he wouldn’t ever see the thing again.

* * *

The distorted limb of the Spiral known as Michael should not have still existed- or rather, should not have existed  _ yet- _ or, to be precise, should never have existed at all, but it was too late for  _ that, _ unless, as it turned out, it wasn’t. All of that was true, but that didn’t mean it was any help to Michael. Very few true things ever were, it being what it was. This was also true: Michael could clearly remember being unmade. Its ill-fitting identity ripped off and discarded, only for Helen to patch herself over the tear, as the last remnants of what had once been Michael Shelley disintegrated in a final scream.

But here it was, now- and the  _ now _ in question, if it wasn’t mistaken, was somewhere in Michael’s own past. It had no idea how or why, but caring about that sort of thing wasn’t exactly its job, was it? It existed to create uncertainties, not to solve them, and there were so many here to enjoy. Whether by time travel or some unexpected version of an afterlife, there were much more entertaining things to do than worry about it.

The Michael who had/would become it was tempting. It would be easy to steal him, he was so afraid in just one small interaction, but… what satisfaction would there be in that? He was the reason it was trapped like this, as- as  _ him. _ That was worth something a little more drawn out, as far as the Distortion was concerned. A more subtle terror, lurking around every corner, but letting him question his own perception of it right up until it killed him. This time’s Michael could go free for now- maybe even long enough to convince himself he’d imagined the whole thing, as he was surely trying to already- but not forever. It would be back for him.

At the moment, there were other priorities on its mind.

Gertrude was in her office. The door was firmly shut against the intrusions of well-meaning assistants, but that was hardly going to stop Michael, who simply opened its own behind her. “Hello, Gertrude Robinson,” it called, making an effort to sound and look even more unsettling than usual. It would have been waiting a long time for this moment, if not for the fact that it hadn’t been even a faint possibility until the thought occurred a few minutes ago. She didn’t turn around, or even look up.

Michael frowned and walked around to stand in front of her desk, and she continued to not react at all. It didn’t want to be thrown off by that, but- really, was she planning to just ignore it until it went away? Maybe it couldn’t expect her to be  _ scared, _ knowing everything she’d seen and done in her lifetime, but if nothing else, she had to at least be  _ curious. _ It tried again regardless, folding itself into the stiff wooden chair meant for visitors and leaning over the desk toward her. “What are you so busy with, Head Archivist? More of your stories? I’ve got one I think you’ll be very interested to hear…”

Surely this, it thought, should have been the point where she finally acknowledged it, trying to maintain control of the situation as she liked to do, only for Michael to show her exactly how impossible it was to control a thing like itself. Perhaps it would even kill her; she was far too sure of herself to be susceptible to the Distortion’s usual tricks, but that wasn’t going to make her immune to any  _ other _ sort of murder. The wrinkle in this plan, of course, was that none of it actually happened the way Michael had imagined it. She still didn’t show any sign of noticing a thing. It leaned forward, trying to get between her and her work so she’d have no choice but to look, and unfurled its stretched-out hands atop her desk. Gertrude didn’t so much as glance at Michael, but she  _ did _ startle and swear under her breath when its long fingers knocked a paperweight to the floor.

Michael was nonplussed. If she were trying to ignore it altogether, surely she would have ignored that as well- but she picked it up and looked around the room with clear annoyance, and her eyes didn’t land on it once. She muttered to herself something about leaving it too close to the edge, and “Now, where was I?” and returned to the stack of documents she’d been carefully leafing through. Michael waved a hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink. Unless she was playing at something very strange indeed, it seemed as if she… genuinely couldn’t see it.

Experimentally, it knocked some of the papers she was looking at off the desk as well. There was no way it could have been a draft, and Gertrude was sensible enough to recognize that immediately. Her eyes narrowed this time when she looked up, and even as she made a deliberate visual sweep of her office, she didn’t focus on Michael at all. “If someone is hoping to frighten me with childish tricks like  _ that,” _ she said levelly to the air, “I’d advise you to give it up. I’m not at all impressed so far, and I doubt you’ll like what will happen when I am.” She gathered her papers and sat back down with the air of a teacher reprimanding an unruly class.

That was that, then. Michael stood slowly and walked around the desk to stand right next to her. It tried poking her arm, just to see what would happen, and its hand went right through like she wasn’t there.

Or, more probably, like  _ Michael _ wasn’t there. It was the one who had/would/should have died, after all. With the state of its existence tenuous at best, it seemed it had become something similar to a ghost. Gertrude continued her work, uncaring of its presence, if no longer  _ entirely _ unaware.

Michael poked at the things on the desk again rather sullenly: there went a perfectly good plan for the day, and how was it supposed to terrorize  _ anyone _ around here if none of them could even see it? A moment later, though, it forgot all about sulking when it happened to actually  _ read _ some of the papers in front of it. The usual boring research, it assumed at first, but then some all too familiar words caught its attention.  _ Zemlya Sannikova. _ Gertrude was making travel plans, and with that realization, the fact that Michael had ended up  _ here _ and  _ now _ suddenly made a lot more sense.

* * *

The monster, whatever it had been-  _ if _ it had really been anything at all,  _ if _ Michael wasn’t just losing his mind- didn’t show itself again for the rest of the day. He tried not to dwell on it, and when that didn’t work, tried not to be obvious about how distracted he was. He stayed near his coworkers as much as he reasonably could; it might not make him any safer, but at least he’d be able to tell whether it was real or not if it came back while someone else was around. It wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been when it didn’t. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was waiting to catch him alone.

He tried to ignore that thought at the end of the day, as he packed up his things and went home. It wasn't yet dark and there were plenty of other people around- he'd never been so grateful for crowded public transport before- and by the time he made it back to his flat and shut the door behind him, the normalcy of it all had banished his fears to the very back of his mind. He let out a breath and sat down at his kitchen table.

Something else sat down across from him.

Michael yelped and leapt out of his chair, trying to put distance between himself and the thing from before, the thing that may or may not have come to kill him. Unfortunately for him, he was the sort of man whose body had never entirely moved past the awkward, stretched-out teenage phase, and his own limbs still tripped him up at the worst times. Like right now. He sprawled on his back on the floor, trying to catch his breath and determine whether or not he was about to die, and the monster sitting in his kitchen laughed.

It was no less disconcerting to hear than the last time. Michael froze, still sitting on the floor, less in panic than shock. The worst thing about it wasn’t the reverberating quality that marked it as inhuman, or the way it pierced into his mind and echoed painfully inside, or even just the malicious tone of it, the danger it implied he was in. It was the- the familiarity of the voice, that little sigh at the end, it sounded like  _ him. _

“I’m not going to  _ kill _ you, Michael,” it sighed to him in a warped imitation of his own voice. He didn’t know how he’d failed to notice it before, although, to be fair, he’d been too scared at the time to notice much of anything.

In any case, he decided to believe what it said- if only because, if it  _ had _ wanted to kill him, it could have done it by now. He stood up slowly, keeping a chair as an ineffective shield between himself and it. “What  _ are _ you doing here, then?”

It smiled. Michael watched its face, oversaturated and staticky as it was, and tried to convince himself it didn’t feel exactly like looking into one of those carnival mirrors that warp your reflection.

“Where else would I be?” it replied. “You’re the only one who can see me.”

He stared for a moment, absorbing that statement. It was almost a relief. “You’re- not real,” he said uncertainly, and then tried to sound a little more confident. “You’re not real. I’m hallucinating.”

It shrugged. It appeared to have more joints in its shoulders than the typical one per arm. “Not real? Maybe I’m not. But I wouldn’t be so certain. Real or not, I can tell you things. Would you like to know how you’ve been lied to, Michael?”

A long few seconds passed before he said, “No,” much more forcefully than he felt. “Y-you’re not real,” he repeated again. “I’m not talking to you.” He turned around, despite the part of him convinced he’d be attacked as soon as his back was to the table, and opened his refrigerator mostly because it was the first thing in front of him. He definitely wasn’t hungry. He pulled things out at random and started making a sandwich anyway, not looking up, not acknowledging the monster that couldn’t possibly actually be in his kitchen.

“It’s rude to ignore a guest, you know.”

The sound came from right behind him now, and he couldn’t help jumping. “I don’t have a guest,” he insisted, voice shaking a little. It probably wasn’t a good idea to talk to it, so he was- he was just talking to himself instead, reminding himself that he  _ was, _ in fact, alone.

It sighed, and he flinched. “I suppose I did let myself in uninvited. Would it make you happy if I knocked next time?”

He didn’t answer and didn’t move. He could feel it inches away, practically touching him, but told himself he was only imagining it. It was easy to feel like there was something behind you if you thought about it enough. He closed his eyes and waited for it to go away.

He was almost sure it was gone when it spoke again. “Fine,” it said, petulant, “if that’s the way you’re going to be, I  _ won’t _ tell you. Maybe next time, if you’re not so rude.”

There was a sound of creaking hinges as a door opened and shut. The feeling at his back went away, and Michael glanced hesitantly over his shoulder. Nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief just before turning around to see that half of his sandwich had disappeared. He was unable to genuinely believe that he had, in the past few seconds and without noticing, eaten it himself.

* * *

The Distortion was… conflicted.

That was expected, of course. It was in its nature to be many contradictory things all at once. It was  _ not _ its nature to hesitate, but that was what it found itself doing now.

What it knew for sure was that Gertrude had to be stopped. It didn’t believe this was a second chance, exactly, with all the intentionality the term implied, but it was  _ a _ chance. An opportunity to see the Great Twisting go off without any interference from meddling Archivists. It only needed to figure out how to keep her away.

Killing her would work, obviously. It would be slightly more difficult when it couldn’t actually  _ touch _ her, but it was hardly impossible. But there were risks. What if, for instance, she didn’t die? Michael itself may not have been sure what exactly it was now, but that didn’t mean the odds of Gertrude Robinson being unable to both figure out it existed and find a way to destroy it for good were ones it was willing to bet on. A decent last resort, maybe, but not its first choice of plan.

So it was left with Michael Shelley, the one person it could actually talk to. It could kill  _ him _ easily. It wanted to try that even less than it wanted to go after Gertrude herself. She’d only find another sacrifice, after all, and there was a nonzero chance of paradoxically unmaking itself in the process. Never having existed anymore would put a wrench in  _ any _ plans it came up with. There was another option. The wanderers weren’t dead, or, at least, not for a very long time. It could simply… take him. By the time he lost himself enough to no longer count as  _ alive, _ the world would be remade in the shape of the Spiral and it surely wouldn’t matter. Still, Gertrude would notice. Oh, it didn’t believe for a minute that she would  _ do _ anything about it. The outcome for poor Michael would be just the same. But she would look for someone to replace him, and there were only so many gullible people who could vanish through mysterious doors before she worked out what was taking them.

And so. Yet another plan. It felt  _ wrong, _ all this logical thinking; it was used to acting on a whim. It was also used to having considerably more power and less impending consequences. A necessary evil, then, however much it grated.

It would talk to Michael, its other self. Tell him just enough truth to show that Gertrude couldn’t be trusted. He wouldn’t be convinced right away, but that was fine- if he backed out  _ too _ soon, she’d have plenty of time to make other arrangements. Only a seed of doubt, at first, but a seed to be carefully tended until, at the last minute, he would finally see her true nature and refuse to follow her to his death. He would remain as he was. Alive and human.

Neither of those qualities would do him any  _ good, _ in the new world the Spiral would create soon after, but he could enjoy them for another day or two, at least.

It did take… a little longer than expected… to get through to him. It had hoped he would come to it eventually, after some lurking around and letting him glimpse it around corners and such, but he seemed determined to pretend he couldn’t see it. Normally, it would encourage that sort of thing- and it couldn’t deny that it felt good, watching him fear what was happening to his mind every time it showed up- but it was very hard to make him listen to something he was convinced couldn’t actually exist. A few days passed without anything that could be called  _ progress, _ and then Gertrude called Michael into her office, and it followed. It was time to speed this up, unless it wanted to fall back on the murder idea after all.

When it entered behind her, Gertrude was laying it on thick with the grandmotherly persona she showed her assistants. It was a lie which should have amused the Distortion, under any other circumstance, yet here, it grated. Maybe because, for all her practiced skill at deception, she had already proven she would never be anything but an enemy to that which is not what it is. It was far from the worst thing she’d ever done, but it was just  _ rude _ of her to ruin the Spiral’s prospects like that while using its own tactics.

Michael Shelley never doubted the act for a moment, because she was a good liar and he was a trusting idiot. It seemed even being followed around by a monster wouldn’t induce him to be a little more suspicious. He sat there, looking earnestly pleased to be able to help- and then he froze as a door that shouldn’t have been there swung slowly open. The Distortion perched itself on the edge of Gertrude’s desk and winked at him, as well as it could when its face was such a confused swirl, at least.

He stared at it, then looked at Gertrude, who clearly didn’t see it at all. He tried not to react too visibly, but it could see the moment he switched over from general fear of its presence to worrying what it might do to the frail old Archivist. It made its best attempt at rolling its eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” it told him in rather exasperated tones. “Even if she deserves it.” An addition which made no sense to him now, but he would understand soon enough. “Will you at least stop pretending you don’t think I exist, though, now that we’ve established you’re concerned about it?”

* * *

Michael couldn’t answer in front of his boss even if he’d wanted to, of course. Speaking of, she was still talking. He swallowed nervously and looked back at her, trying to appear like he’d been listening the whole time. It didn’t really… work. He was still looking  _ through _ her more than anything, and it didn’t escape her notice.

“Michael?” Gertrude rapped on the desk between them, and he jumped. “Are you listening to me?”

“Oh! Uh- yes, sorry,” he laughed nervously. “Just, a, a little lost in thought, and you know how it is when you don’t get enough sleep-” He noticed her impatient look and stopped himself from rambling.

“Well. I suppose it’s just as well I was nearly finished anyway.” She cleared her throat and looked down at the papers in front of her. “I’m scheduled to leave two weeks from now. Can I count on you to accompany me?”

He wasn’t going to admit he hadn’t heard most of the details, but he knew he didn’t want her to have to travel to- somewhere in Russia, wasn’t it?- by herself. He stammered out something affirmative and signed where she indicated, scooping the papers intended for him to keep and read over into a messy pile. She nodded and said something dismissive, which he  _ also _ didn’t really hear, and he made his escape from her office as fast as he could.

The rest of the work day was a blur, and when he returned home that night, the door to his building… wasn’t. He didn’t even notice at first. Too deep in his own head, worrying about, broadly speaking,  _ this. _ It wasn’t until the short walk down the corridor to his flat refused to end that he realized something was wrong. There were doors at regular intervals, but none of them were his. There was a turn, but when he took it, it only led to another, identical corridor. The way he remembered coming from was never anywhere to be found. And yet, it all looked so  _ familiar- _ all the right components arranged in just slightly the wrong order- it was too easy to wonder if everything wasn’t normal after all. If he wasn’t just confused.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, and turned around to see- nothing, actually, at first, but he turned  _ again _ to face the way he’d swear he’d been looking to begin with, and there was the thing that had been stalking him all this time. It looked even more inhuman here, but it also seemed… more solid, somehow.

“You’re doing this,” he said. A bit of relief snuck its way into his voice. Whatever happened now, at least he didn’t have to wait in suspense for it any longer.

“Am I?” It was a step closer, although it didn’t  _ take _ a step closer. “I thought I didn’t exist. How could I possibly be doing  _ anything?” _

Was it… being sarcastic? He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

It was right in front of him now, and a wall had turned up at his back while he wasn’t looking so he couldn’t go anywhere else. He’d never had such a close look at it before, and now that he did, he couldn’t see anything but his own warped reflection. Although one of them looked considerably more scared at the moment. “Or,” it asked, “are you finally going to admit you knew I was real all along?”

He tried to come up with something to say back. A witty response would be nice. But his mind had been emptied of anything other than the danger he was in, and he could only swallow nervously and nod.

“Oh, good. Talking to you won’t be nearly as much of a waste that way. Before you ask,” it added when he started to speak, “I’m not here to kill you  _ this _ time, either. I want…” It hesitated. The ever-present note of amusement faded from its voice, and Michael didn’t know what to think when it sounded uncharacteristically serious. “I want to tell you something. Do you remember, I told you I knew things? I wasn’t lying. Let me tell you a story, Michael Shelley. And I will let you live.”

He nodded again. What else  _ could _ he do?

“Good. Come with me.”

It led him a short distance and opened a door. According to the number, it was his own. It led to… what  _ looked _ like his flat, but he knew it wasn’t right. Not that he could point to anything  _ wrong _ about it, specifically- any detail he focused on was just as it should have been- but he was sure it was all rearranging itself behind his back, only to slip innocently into place as soon as he turned around.

“Have a seat,” the monster said pleasantly. He was sort of afraid to touch anything, let alone trust it to support him, but he sat down gingerly one one of the kitchen chairs anyway. He wasn’t going to risk being rude to something that had only sort-of made up its mind not to murder him. “Tea?”

He didn’t see it actually make any, but it set a cup in front of him regardless. At this point, it seemed useless to even worry about whether it was poisoned or something, so he mumbled an automatic “thanks” and had a sip. It tasted like absolutely nothing- not plain water, just…  _ nothing. _ It was like drinking liquid air. At least it was the right temperature. Close enough to trigger the automatic relaxation effect of sitting down with a hot drink after work. He still wasn’t anywhere near  _ calm, _ but as long as he didn’t think too hard about all the parts of this situation that were just slightly off, he could avoid actual panic long enough to get through whatever conversation the thing wanted to have.

When he looked up again, it- well, it didn’t actually look like what he’d call a  _ thing _ anymore. Not that it made him any more comfortable, because now it just looked like… him.  _ Exactly _ like him, if maybe a bit older. When it noticed him staring, it smiled.

Michael took a deep breath and another steadying drink of his… whatever it actually was. “You… said you had a story to tell me?”

“Yes.” It leaned forward, steepling its fingers on the table. There was still a ghost of the long, inhuman hands it had before, superimposed over its current normal appearance in Michael’s vision. “A story about Gertrude Robinson.” It spoke her name with the sort of reverence afforded a potent curse. “What she did to me. What she is going to do to  _ you.” _

As its story unfolded, the quiet suspicion Michael hadn’t wanted to bring up was confirmed for him. If he could believe it, this creature didn’t just look and sound like him, it  _ was _ him- a Michael from a future where something had gone horribly wrong. He didn’t want to believe it. It told him the trip Gertrude had asked him to help on, the one he’d already  _ agreed _ to, mind you, was a ruse. It wasn’t an ordinary business trip, or even the slightly less ordinary investigation into the site of some claimed supernatural phenomenon. Their destination- Zemlya Sannikova, an island off the coast of Russia, he remembered her explaining- apparently wasn’t a real place. It didn’t exist on any map, and it  _ shouldn’t _ have existed in  _ any _ capacity, and that was why… Gertrude was going to send him to his death, more or less, in order to destroy it.

“That’s- that’s ridiculous,” he said once he found his voice again. He struggled to shake off the intimately painful details of the way it had described being  _ changed. _ “I mean, Ms. Robinson wouldn’t- and, and besides, I know it’s the Magnus Institute, but the stuff we look into, it’s not actually…” The final word  _ real _ shriveled up in embarrassment on his tongue as he remembered where he was and what he was talking to.

It sighed. It had never shown any need to  _ breathe _ before, but maybe it was a habit. Left over from when it was… when it was  _ him. _ “You don’t believe me,” it noted. “Of course. Why would you? Hm… I’ll show you, then. Come with me.”

He opened his mouth to ask what it meant by that, but quickly closed it against a wave of nausea as their surroundings shifted in a subtle, yet disorienting way. None of it  _ looked _ different. When the other pulled the front door open a crack, though, it no longer led into the infinite corridor they’d come from. Michael stepped out after it cautiously, and once his eyes started adjusting to the darkness on the other side, recognition hit him. They were back in the Magnus Institute, just outside Gertrude’s office- or a version of it, at least. For all he knew, this still wasn’t reality, just another place recreated in that… eldritch pocket dimension. Everything looked normal, though, and it didn’t feel  _ wrong _ the way his flat had. As soon as he finished getting his bearings, the other produced a key from nowhere and gestured him to the door.

“I can’t just break into my boss’s office,” he protested quietly.

It frowned. “Why not? She’s not going to  _ know. _ If she didn’t want me to have her key, she should have made it harder to steal.” It gave him a look that was not so much a smile as a showing of teeth. “Besides, it’s not as if you really have a choice.”

Michael couldn’t argue with that. He did sort of want to ask why it couldn’t have just taken them into the office to begin with, but he doubted the answer would do anything other than frustrate him and waste time. He gave up and unlocked the door.

The monster- he couldn’t bring himself to think of it as  _ himself _ for very long, and besides, it had described  _ itself _ as one, when it told him about becoming- went straight to Gertrude’s desk and started opening drawers. Michael stood near the door after closing and locking it again, twisting his hands together nervously and trying not to think about the small possibility of being discovered by the cleaning staff. According to the clock on the wall, it was past midnight, although it didn’t feel like more than a few hours had passed since he went home for the day. Or the rather larger possibility that Gertrude would figure out someone had gone through her desk when she came in tomorrow, and he would be the first one she suspected thanks to his odd behaviour earlier.

“If you’re not going to do anything but stand there, you can listen to this.”

He jumped. A tape recorder was being pressed into his hands, the one Gertrude had reluctantly taken to using for audio recordings of statements when no better options were available. One of those tapes was already in it. Statement #9522002, according to the label. He didn’t like the idea of making more noise than he had to, but he didn’t want an argument, either. He turned the volume as low as possible and pressed play with the recorder held up to his ear.

He noticed right away that Gertrude sounded… different. Not to say it wasn’t her voice; it was, but… when she started reading out the statement, it was almost like she was acting it. He wouldn’t have expected it of her. Still, the statement  _ itself _ had nothing to do with anything, as far as he could tell, and he wasn’t sure why it was important that he hear it. Then he reached the end of the recording, and he started to understand.

Gertrude’s post-statement notes, for one thing, made casual references to things she’d never so much as mentioned to him before. She talked to him about the supernatural, of course- it was their job- but he’d never heard her sound as confident as this that she knew exactly how it worked. While he was still trying to make sense of that, she was interrupted in the middle of her notes by Michael himself. He could vaguely remember that day, preparing for the new climate-controlled storage room she’d decided the archives needed, and had to cringe a little at how awkward his own voice sounded. Mostly, though, he was focused on  _ Gertrude’s _ voice. There had been something strange about it for the whole recording, but he only realized what it was once it changed entirely when she addressed him. Her normal- well, what he’d  _ thought _ was her normal voice, up to now- was more or less what he’d expect from a woman her age. He never would have expected it to be  _ faked. _ Apparently, though, it was no less affected than the tone she’d taken for her dramatic reading of the statement.

…He was also trying not to be hurt by her clear annoyance with him knocking on the door. He  _ had _ interrupted, but still, it didn’t exactly feel good. He wasn’t having much success in convincing himself that, if his boss really was planning to use him as a human sacrifice, he was released from any obligation to care what she thought of him.

“It’s true,” the monster sing-songed, startling him again out of his silent struggle to make sense of things. “She lies to you. Would you like to see the truth?”

Michael… wasn’t sure he wanted to know, not really. He’d be happier if this entire night had never happened. But that wasn’t exactly an option, and he found himself trailing after it to the desk. It was covered in papers now. A few statements pulled from the filing cabinets against the wall, and notes in Gertrude’s handwriting to go with them, all surprisingly neatly arranged. They were dated during the time he’d worked here, and he did vaguely remember them being given, but… he definitely didn’t remember Gertrude saying any of the things she’d written  _ here _ about them. She usually reminded him how difficult it was to be sure whether any of these stories were actually true.

He stumbled a bit and sat down in the desk chair. The evidence that he’d been kept in the dark all this time remained right in front of him, no matter how much he blinked at it in disbelief.

“Is it difficult to take in? Perhaps you still have doubts? I’ll leave you to think about it,” the monster decided. “Good luck.” It left the office with a smug air about it, and he heard the door they’d come through open and shut out in the corridor. After a few more seconds of numb staring, it occurred to him to go after it, but the door was nowhere to be seen. It seemed he would have to find his own way home at… whatever hour it would be when he left. When he finished reading through the files on the desk, and then some.

Michael may have been fooled by his boss’s act- along with, in his own defense, everyone  _ else _ who worked with her- but he wasn’t a complete  _ idiot. _ He  _ was _ several other things- “assistant archivist” and “passable researcher,” for example, both of which he would greatly prefer to focus on over “man watching everything he believed about his life fall apart around him.” Point being, he wasn’t going to sit here and blindly follow this creature claiming to know his future the same way he’d been following Gertrude. Maybe he’d never really known her, but he couldn’t make himself accept the idea that she would- would  _ kill _ him for no good reason. There had to be something it wasn’t telling him, she must not have realized what would happen to him, or, or  _ something. _ He sat down on the floor with his forehead pressed against his knees until he was calm enough to pick up a statement without his hands shaking too badly to read it, and then he got up and started searching for whatever that something was.

* * *

He found it. Not the explanation he was looking for, exactly, but a reason. He had to admit it was a  _ very _ good one. In the end, it didn’t make him feel any better. The truth rarely does. When his coworkers entered the next morning, he was still there, at his desk, clutching a mug of coffee against his chest with both hands as if it were his heart.

If Gertrude noticed anything off, either with him or in her office, she didn’t say a word about it.

* * *

Michael watched its past self with satisfaction in the days following their visit. It had gotten through to him at last. It couldn’t see into his  _ thoughts, _ of course, but he was obviously shaken, jumping every time Gertrude spoke to him. Refraining from doing anything to scare him further went against all its instincts and most of its personal values, but now was the time to tread carefully if it didn’t want him to decide he couldn’t believe it after all. It settled for what mild distress it could get out of disorganizing the library and stealing everyone’s pens for the moment, to tide it over. There would be no shortage of fear to enjoy soon enough, if the ritual was allowed to work- and, with how smoothly its plan was progressing, it was almost sure of  _ that. _

There was… one small problem. Michael- the human one-  _ had _ already agreed to the trip, in his eagerness to escape the situation of being asked, and he didn’t seem inclined to take it back now. It was understandable, if not a little frustrating. Gertrude would have questions. Michael Shelley was not a good liar, especially when he was nervous, and there were few imaginable situations more nerve-wracking than trying to lie to Gertrude Robinson’s face. And so, when she departed for Zemlya Sannikova right on schedule, he unhappily went with her. The  _ other _ Michael tagged along as well, of course; it spent the whole voyage creeping around on the  _ Tundra _ and sulking when it proved impossible to get a reaction from any of its crew. If Gertrude was going to get a ride from another power’s servant, it didn’t see why she couldn’t at least pick a less  _ boring _ one.

By the time they finally disembarked, Michael Shelley’s fear was palpable. Gertrude had lost her mask gradually as their destination grew near, and it was obvious now just how  _ impossible _ that destination was. To the Distortion, it felt like coming home after a lifetime away. It trailed behind them to the edge of the ritual site, basking in the wrongness of it all and anticipation of the Twisted new world to come. They reached the edge of the impossible construction, and the Archivist turned to her assistant and told him what he needed to do. Michael looked at her, and at the nonsensical map in his hands, and at the monster over her shoulder- appearing more inhuman by the second, now, as the ritual built to its climax. It smiled at him in a way it, at least, meant to be encouraging.

He took a deep breath, looked Gertrude in the eyes once more, and nodded silently before turning and starting to walk in.

His other self didn’t stop to think before moving to stop him. It threw its door open in midair and stepped through to emerge just inside the Escher-like building he was headed for. It was difficult to think in there, difficult to focus on any goal other than joining in the ecstasy of twisted creation, but it was hardly trying anything  _ complicated. _ It simply stood on the other side of the door Michael wanted to go through and grasped the handle, and when he tried to open it, it didn’t let him. He tried a few more times with increasing confusion before looking to Gertrude for answers. When he explained the problem, her face did something complicated and subtle. She hesitated in thought for a brief fraction of a second, and then she strode over and took her map back from him without a word, gesturing his dismissal in the direction of the shore.

It was clear before she reached the entrance that it was already too late. The window of opportunity she’d timed out so carefully was gone. The whole island shook as the ritual reached a crescendo, and then…

And then… nothing. The moment had come, Michael  _ felt _ it, and yet nothing happened. All three of them stood for a moment in a frozen, expectant silence. Then, they heard a deafening crack, the sound of something splintering from its foundation, and Zemlya Sannikova began to crumble around them.

“No,” Michael whispered, then screamed.  _ “No! _ How?!”

No one answered it; the humans were already running for the ship they’d arrived on, and the words were lost to the roar of unmaking regardless. As the Great Twisting folded inward and consumed itself whole, the only witnesses to know it had ever existed at all were a shock-silent Michael Shelley and his Archivist. Gertrude watched the destruction with folded arms and a calculating expression, even as the  _ Tundra _ fled it, until there was nothing left to see.


End file.
